Caught
by IrrelevantLogic
Summary: D.I. Anderson just wants to go home and eat dinner, but there's a psychotic mass-murderer waiting to be interrogated. One-off, slight AU. Rated for language.


**Story I wrote for my sister-in-law a while ago. Please R&R! :D**

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><p>It had been a long day for Detective Inspector Anderson. He was tired, it was hot, he hadn't gotten any further on the case of that missing teenager, and to top it all off, Harding had caught a notorious murderer.<p>

Of course, it was good that a notorious murderer had been caught, thought Anderson as he headed for the interrogation room. But why oh why did it have to be _Harding_? He would be insufferable about it for weeks. "I said I was gonna catch 'im, I did, an' 'ere I went an' caught 'im, din' I?" and so on, _ad nauseam_. And it had been pure luck, too.

And now he had to go interrogate this bloke when he'd really, really promised Melinda that he'd be home for supper. And it wasn't going to be all that easy, either; judging from the footage on the security camera, the man was a raving lunatic. He kept charging around banging into walls and screaming unintelligible words.

Eighteen years until retirement, he thought wearily, closing his eyes. Then he straightened his tie and nodded to one of the guards to let him inside.

The prisoner whirled around when he heard the door open and started to charge Anderson, but the two massive uniforms right behind him gave him pause. To Anderson's surprise, the man didn't look at all _afraid_ of his guards, he simply seemed to recognise that he had no chance of escaping that way. He settled instead for a sort of animal hiss.

"Sit down, please, Mr Black," said Anderson in his best Neutral Policeman tone. He liked to assess his quarry before deciding on tactics.

Black hissed again, but he flung himself into a chair and folded his arms over his chest. Anderson sat down opposite him, leaned back, and studied his captive for a long moment.

About thirty-five, Anderson thought, going by the hands, although the face was considerably lined. Probably a much larger man, once; he had a massive frame and a sort of stretched-looking tattoo on his neck, but his bones stuck out everywhere and the wild eyes glared at Anderson from between jutting cheekbones and a heavy brow. There was something strange about those eyes, something—certainly not sane, but not exactly _in_sane, either. More like someone who had seen more horrible things than anyone should be forced to endure, and had endured.

"Right, then, Mr Black," Anderson said at last, drawing a file toward him. "I'm assuming that's your real name. How are you today?"

"How d'you think I am?" the man muttered savagely. It was the first coherent thing he said. He had an artificially high-pitched voice with a hysterical edge.

"We just have some questions we'd like to ask you, Mr Black," said Anderson. "Or may I call you Sirius?"

"Call me whatever the hell you want," he said. "Only let me go. I have to go. I'd be gone already but I'm not strong enough, yet, I need more strength, I can't _concentrate_, so many voices, but soon I'll be able to go…"

"Now, Sirius, you don't really think we're going to do that, do you?"

"Why not? You haven't got anything on me."

"Now that's an interesting point you've brought up there," said Anderson, staring at the file in his hands. "I'm sure you've seen the news reports—wanted ads—things of that kind. You're a famous man, Sirius."

"Listen, I've got rights, haven't I? They used to say that on the, on the, telly shows. I have rights."

"Would you like to make a phone call?" Anderson asked.

"Phone call? Oh…" He looked slightly embarrassed, but covered it up quickly. "You can't keep me in here like a—like a—like a dog," he said loudly, and then he fell back in his chair and started to laugh. It would have been the hearty laugh of someone enjoying a joke except that it went on and on until the room seemed full of his echoing, shrieking laughter.

"As a matter of fact, we _can_ keep you in here, Sirius. This report says you are, and I quote, 'armed and dangerous'. We didn't find a gun on you, though. What did you do with it?"

"A gun?" Black asked. His fit of mirth over, he suddenly looked tired—angry as ever, but tired.

"Yes, Sirius. You know…bang, bang?"

"Bang, bang," Sirius repeated. "Oh, those shiny metal sticks. Your lot had them when you brought me in. Bang, bang. No, I haven't got a gun, Mr Policeman. Hell, I haven't even got a wand, they took that away…"

"A wand?"

"A sort of…weapon, thing," said Sirius vaguely. "You wouldn't understand." Ah. Undoubtedly underground slang of some kind.

"Can you describe it?"

"A long piece of wood," he said, and then started to laugh again. "Woody wand," he hooted. "We had fun with that one!"

"If you don't have a gun, what did you do with it?" Anderson asked. This bloke was getting on his nerves, but he forced himself to stay calm.

"Never had a gun, ever," said the prisoner. "What would I want with a gun, when I can kill a street's worth of people with one explosion, without a single word? How did they tell you I did that one, then? TNP? TNT…but did they tell you about the family? Did they get that far? Did they mention the people that died there? The pretty little red-haired girl, died defending her baby son…did they tell you about her? Did they tell you how she _threw_ herself in the way to protect the little boy? Did they tell you? Did they tell you about her?! Did they tell you how she died and lay lifeless on the ground and all that beauty and charm and talent and brains and bright sparkling loveliness just _died, _just stopped existing, zap, boom, _bang bang_, Mr Policeman?! I'll bet they didn't mention _her_. And did they tell you about the man? The man? The father? The kid's father…Did they tell you how he faced him without a wand, stupid, stupid bloke, how his glasses never broke, never cracked, how wide and staring his eyes were behind those glasses, how his hair still stood up on end like he'd just got off his broom, how he looked like he might jump up and say 'just joking, still here' at any second except those god-damned eyes? Did they _tell_ you? _Did those bastards tell you_?! Did they just _forget to mention it_? God-damn it, god _fucking_ damn it! That's the only thing I ever did, and it's enough, it's too much, it's so much, it would have killed me, they didn't have to do anything…I'll get out of here, I will, soon, I feel better already, but they'll never, never, never come back, because of me, that laughter died, all that _laughter_, the jokes about wood, the jokes about everything, it's just me, now, just on my own, by myself, I'm alone, they didn't realise, they never had to do anything, I would have tortured _myself_…"

And Sirius Black began to laugh, and then he began to cry, and his fists squeezed tighter and tighter together until the long nails drew blood that dripped out onto the table, and he put his head down between them and cried.

Anderson sat very still, his pen poised, as the man across the table howled like a bereft animal, like a dog whose master has died. Then Anderson cleared his throat quietly.

"They didn't tell us _anything_, Mr Black," he said.

Sirius raised his head, his face a mask of agony.

"In fact," said Anderson, shifting the file in front of him, "we can't figure out exactly what it is you're supposed to have done. Who did you murder, Mr Black? We don't have any records of you at all. Any records of thirteen people dying by your hand, any records of you having a gun…all we seem to have is this." He pulled out a note from the Prime Minister and handed it to Black, who took it, read it wordlessly, and handed it back.

"But you're saying you murdered someone. A mother and a father. Who were they, Sirius?"

Black shook his head and crushed the palms of his hands into his eye sockets. "I didn't murder them, Mr Policeman," he said. "It wasn't me. I would have died, I would have _died_ for them. They knew that, they _knew_ that, if they'd been alive they could have told everyone that I didn't kill them…if Remus…but no…no, he couldn't…why should he? That little rat made it so clear, so obvious, and I _told_ them to trust him, that was my mistake…that was my fatal, fatal mistake…"

His voice faded away into an incomprehensible murmur, but his lips went on moving. He stretched his face with his hands, pulling his skin, dragging his nails across his cheeks, grinding his teeth. He _looked_ like a madman. If Anderson were to go on appearances only, he would say that Sirius Black _was_ a mass murderer. But there was no evidence. Nothing, but the half-crazed murmurings of his own mouth.

"Well, if it were up to me, I'd say a asylum, not prison," he said to Marge when he emerged. "He's clearly daft. But I don't know whether he's _killed_ anyone."

"He said he had," Sergeant Kramer pointed out.

"Sure, but then he said he hadn't. We can't really take his word on anything. Did you listen to him? He sounds more like…well, more like someone who's crazy with grief."

"Well, but you can be crazy with grief after killing someone, too."

"True. I'd say keep him on pretty sharp surveillance until the others get here. Make Harding watch him. He's so proud of having brought him in…"

"Detective! Detective!"

One of the uniforms in the surveillance room came tearing down the hall, her hair disarrayed.

"I was just about to go home, Sanders, what is it?"

"The prisoner, sir, Black, Sirius Black, he's gone."

"He's _what_?"

She looked miserable. "Come and look at the tape, sir. He just sat there after you went and then all of a sudden he looked up at the camera and said 'I think I can, now,' and just _vanished,_ sir, vanished with a bang…"

He was about to ask if this was her idea of a joke, but a look at her face forestalled him. He began to run down the hall and tripped over a large black dog.

"Marge, make that bloody announcement about people bringing in pets," he shouted, scrambling to his feet again and racing off after Sanders.

The dog shook itself and sauntered on down the hall toward the door.


End file.
